


Rituals

by Revidescent



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crisis of faith or something, Idiots in Love, Ineffability, M/M, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Tenderness, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 19:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19470385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revidescent/pseuds/Revidescent
Summary: Aziraphale's coming to terms with leaving Heaven behind, but there's still something he needs to know for sure.





	Rituals

It’s far enough past midnight that most would call it morning, but the sky is still an inky, glittering dark. Aziraphale has been walking for over an hour.

The seaside cottage he shares with a certain (largely retired) demon is secluded by design. They both enjoy the privacy, as well as the little rituals that come from heading into town for supplies and human company. Aziraphale still doesn't drive, though, and tries to avoid supernatural means of travel when he can, which means more pedestrian methods remain. He’d waited ’til Crowley had gone out on some nighttime drive to head out himself. He's a terrible liar, when Crowley is concerned, and it’s easier this way.

Whatever happens, he tells himself, it’s easier this way.

The church rises on a low hill outside of town, a well-worn stone structure shaded by thinning trees. Aziraphale attempts to ignore his rising apprehension as the building grows closer, a shape that should be too familiar to inspire so much trepidation.

Except, as he draws near, he realizes that’s not the only familiar shape. Between shrubbery and old graves lies a sleek outline that can only be the Bentley. The angel almost staggers to a stop, turns to retreat, but there’s a gentle movement in the dark and he knows he’s been seen.

Crowley’s leaning against the stone edifice, casual as anything. He nods at Aziraphale’s approach, his mouth quirking into an almost-smile. “Took you long enough.”

“Crowley, what are you – how did you – you knew I’d be here?”

Six thousand years is an awfully long time to know somebody. For example, it’s long enough for Aziraphale to tell the difference between Crowley’s casual lounging, and the kind that he very much wants others to believe is casual in order to disguise the unease he’d rather keep to himself. This is the latter; the two look quite alike to the untrained eye, but there’s the tension in the shoulders, the way he holds his neck. Something’s wrong. “Angel,” he says, and the tone is just the same; a drawl smoothed overtop the whisper of unease at his foundations. “I know you. I know you better than you know you. I know you better than I know _me_. You haven’t been right for weeks.”

“But how did you know I’d be coming _here_?” Aziraphale's voice cracks. He hadn’t expected to sound so desperate. He’s not even sure why he’s upset.

“I just… I don’t know. I did.” Six thousand years, thinks Aziraphale. You don’t always understand what you know, but you know it all the same. “You’re planning something. You want to talk to Her. You can do that anywhere, can’t you?” Crowley raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Never stopped me before.”

Because of course Crowley prays. Probably doesn’t call it that, but the sort of questions that lead to a Fall aren’t likely to stop as soon as one hits the ground. He’s never had answers. He’ll never stop asking. “I understand,” says Aziraphale. “I… I know that. I just needed something to, oh, I don’t know, make it real. Official. It’s important that I’m clear in my intentions."

“You like the ritual of it,” says Crowley. “You always have, haven’t you?”

(Because it’s not about Heaven. He knows how to contact them; he has no desire to do so.)

Aziraphale finally bridges the gap between them, settling against the wall to the right of his companion. The posture feels unnatural. “Crowley,” he asks again, gentler this time, “why did you come?”

Even behind his darkened lenses, Crowley can’t look him in the eye. “I already said. You haven’t been right, you’ve been upset, and you won’t tell me why. I know you’re rubbish at asking for help when it matters, and I just thought… bloody hell, don’t make me say it.”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Funny, that. See my best friend all wound up about something and he just keeps on denying it, as though I can’t _tell,_ nothing to be worried about there.” There’s no longer anything relaxed in his posture, forced or otherwise. His body’s a hard line of tension, bleeding into the air.

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say to that.

He lets his hand slide slowly sideways, as though magnetized. His knuckles brush against the back of Crowley’s hand and when the demon doesn’t pull away from the touch, he clasps their hands together. Crowley’s hand is cold, and he doesn’t tighten his grip, but he doesn’t break the connection, either. “You’re right,” says the angel. “I haven’t been myself. I’ve been thinking too much, I suppose.”

A snort. “Dangerous thing, thinking.”

“I’m learning to let go of all the – oh, I might as well call it what it is, the _propaganda_ that’s been fed to me all these years. It’s taking time, but I believe I’m beginning to uncover the person I am without Heaven.”

“You're not that different,” says Crowley. “Just less scared all the time. More _you_. You’re not making excuses anymore. You’re letting yourself…” he doesn’t finish the sentence, but he idly brushes his thumb against Aziraphale’s in demonstration. “Don’t tell me you think that’s a bad thing.”

“I don’t! It’s good, I’m sure of it, my dear, I simply…” He takes a very deep breath. It’s pointless; he doesn’t need it and it does nothing to calm him. “There’s a question I need answered, is all. And I’m certainly not going to get the answer from _them_.”

Crowley pulls away; props his arm up against the wall to face Aziraphale, to study him. “And you think you’ll get it here? C’mon, you’re cleverer than that. Nobody gets proper answers from the Almighty, least of all us.”

“I’m hoping so,” says Aziraphale. “But I need to ask anyway.”

There’s a look on Crowley’s face, the being who sees him far too well, and he recognizes the wheels turning. _Don’t ask me to say it,_ thinks Aziraphale desperately, _I don’t think I have the courage to do it twice._ Perhaps his frantic thoughts are written into his expression, because Crowley says nothing but “Okay.”

“Good,” says Aziraphale. “So I’ll just, erm…” he gestures towards the church door, awkward, uncertain how to proceed from this conversation. It’d taken weeks to find the nerve, and now he’s been derailed.

Crowley nods. “Yeah, you can, uh…” They shuffle around each other, disentangled, but Aziraphale’s only a few steps away before the demon blurts out: “D’you want me to go with you?”

He turns, his hand already on the door. “Are you _mad_?” He doesn't mean to sound so dismissive; it’s just that there’s a particular moment in 1941 that’s at the forefront of his mind more often than he’d ever admit. “Dear boy, you do understand this is holy ground?”

“Yeah, I definitely got that.” The demon’s standing straight now, shoulders squared, feet planted. Certain, immovable. He’s little more than a silhouette against the moonlight, statue still. Then he sighs, and his posture goes suddenly soft. Crowley moves only a step closer. He takes off his glasses and slips them into his pocket. He rarely wears them at home, just the two of them, but out in the world – even without another soul in sight – that _means_ something. “Aziraphale. Do you want me to go with you?”

It’s the voice that breaks him. There’s a depth of sincerity to it that’s diamond-rare; the last words he’d heard spoken with that much naked vulnerability were _I lost my best friend_. He doesn’t sound sad, though, not exactly. Just… open.

“Yes,” says Aziraphale, in a small, small voice. “Please.”

Before he can reconsider, Crowley’s there beside him, their hands slipping back together. “Do you want…?”

Aziraphale nods, squeezes in response, and opens the doors.

“Let there be light,” mutters Aziraphale, and the pitch-dark room brightens before him. He would have gone anywhere, really; a temple, a mosque, a synagogue, the place of worship makes no difference, but the church was closest. Besides, Aziraphale had always been fond of the old carpenter, even if he’d have been appalled at the sorts of things his followers got up to these days.

Just one step over the threshold, and Crowley hisses, not a snake's sound, but the sound of somebody trying not to cry out in pain. His hand tightens against Aziraphale’s, vicelike, nails digging in, but he _walks_. He’s not dancing from foot to foot, trying to minimize his contact with the consecrated ground, just gritting his teeth and moving forward.

Aziraphale supposes his concern shows on his face, because Crowley just chuckles. “It’s fine,” he says, in a voice that clearly isn’t. “This isn’t nearly as bad as last time. This place must be less holy.” The angel doesn’t push the point.

It’s an old building, by human standards at least, and well-loved. The varnish is starting to wear away from the pews, and the carpet’s just this side of threadbare, but the way the unnatural light reflects off the stained glass feels nothing less than sacred. He reaches the altar. He kneels.

Crowley doesn’t follow him down at first, and Aziraphale doesn’t blame him for that, but after a moment’s consideration, he lowers himself into a crouch, one hand on the other man’s shoulder. The demon’s no longer puffing sharp, pained breaths out between his teeth; he’s stopped breathing altogether. One glance at the set of his features is enough to tell that the burn beneath him hasn’t subsided. 

Aziraphale gazes upwards; it’s a human habit, he knows, but his eyes have to go somewhere. He’s definitely still breathing, heart thudding in his chest, letting his nerves run wild in his body as they see fit. “Uhm,” he says, almost a word. “Lord.”

There’s still some tiny, foolish part of him that hopes for a flash of light that never comes. The silence stretches too long. Crowley would be well within his rights to tell him to just get on with it already, but the only sign he gives is the way his fingers dig into the angel’s shoulder just a little too hard.

“Lord,” again, “I’m certain I don’t need to explain to You who I am or why I’ve come here. It was important to do this, erm, officially, I suppose. I mean to be humble. I…” Aziraphale closes his eyes. He’s not certain he’s ever been this afraid, not even at the end of the world. “I don’t much care what Heaven thinks of me, anymore, I expect You know that. I’m not a very good angel, and I’m not certain I ever was, but their opinion no longer concerns me. I want… I like being what I am, here in this world, but I must know where I stand, I…” Again, he opens his eyes. Still nothing but a cold, old church and empty silence. “I think I’ve done right,” he stammers. “but I must know where I stand with You. If I’ve done wrong, then cast me out.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath beside him, and Crowley whispers “ _Don’t,_ ” but he’s already said it. The hard part is over.

(He doesn’t know that Crowley’s praying too. _Don’t you dare. Don’t you_ dare _. He’s the best of them._ )

“I’ll Fall,” says Aziraphale. “I know now that’s not enough to change my heart. If this really wasn’t the Plan, and we’ve mucked it all up and it really was all just about the war and all those people were meant to die, then… then… _I don’t want to be on Your side anymore.”_

And he waits, slack-jawed and wild-eyed.

For the ground to burn beneath him.

For the light at his core to dim.

For a great violence that never comes.

His human form’s shaking with fear, and his cheeks are tear-stained when after ten seconds, twenty, thirty, he stops bracing for the blow. His breath steadies. “Alright, then. Good. I’m… I’m glad we’ve got that sorted.” Aziraphale stands and, suddenly at a loss, offers a strange little bow towards the altar. He pulls Crowley to his feet. 

“You _idiot_ ,” says Crowley. “I had some guess the direction you might’ve been going, but… you have no idea what you were even asking! You don’t _know!”_

“I’m quite certain I did. I’ve had a long time to consider it.”

“You don’t belong in Hell!”

“Yes, I quite agree, and I had no intention of reporting there if things had gone that way. I only…” He offers a sad, tiny shrug. He doesn’t often feel tired, but his body aches from the effort of his words. “Demons are meant to rebel, aren’t they? I’ve no more repect for Hell than for Heaven, but you, Crowley, I respect you. I know where I stand, and it shan’t be with a God who’d make such a world and then toss it aside.” The light around them begins to dim back to darkness as they head towards the open door. “It’s still not a definite answer, I suppose. That would have been nice, but I’m uncertain what else I might have done.”

Crowley stops so abruptly he stumbles. “Angel,” he says. His golden eyes are much too wide. “Aziraphale.”

“Crowley? What’s wrong?” Because something clearly is, panic writ large on his slender features, where before there’d been only pain. Where before–

“Aziraphale, it doesn’t _hurt_.”

The ground has not changed, its consecration as plain as the dark of the sky. All he sees in Crowley’s eyes is desperation, not relief, as he collapses to his own knees right there in the aisle. Crowley lays one palm on the ground and another. His voice cracks as he asks, “Angel, what does this mean?”

“I… I’m not sure. It’s… maybe it’s an answer after all.”

He’s still a demon. There’s no question in that. It’s not a thing one could hide from an angel. His aura doesn’t bleed gloomy blackness like the rest of them, but it never has, really, and he still has a serpent’s eyes. Yet there he sits, on holy ground. “Some answer,” says Crowley. “Not what I’d call _clear_.”

“My dear, when has She ever been?”

(At the Beginning, when angels fell like comets through the atmosphere, when a taste of knowledge was enough to cost you paradise, perhaps. But maybe it hadn’t been, not even then. She does, after all, play the longest game there is.)

As the light fades to nothing, Crowley comes unsteadily to his feet. “Whatever I expected when I came here tonight, I’ll tell you, I’d never have guessed this.”

They shut the heavy, old door behind them, and it knows well enough to lock itself as they depart. “At least I brought the car,” says Crowley faintly. “Come on, I’ll drive us home.”

It’s not a long drive. The pair of them ride in silence. It’s only when the Bentley rolls to a stop outside their little cottage that Aziraphale feels the tension break, somehow. It’s like something in the air, approaching weather, a pressure finally released, and he’s laughing. He’s laughing and he’s crying, and it’s not funny, exactly, except it kind of is, Crowley’s expression, like he thinks his friend has lost his mind, and maybe he has–

“Sorry, have I missed something?” But his face is softening too, defences failing in the face of so much joy. There’s a little smile forming at the corners of his still-uncovered eyes.

“Six thousand years,” says Aziraphale. “Six thousand years, and you know what that means, you’re the _only_ one who knows what that means, I doubt that any of the rest of them have felt the weight of time the way we have, and…” He scrubs the heels of his hands over his damp eyes, wildly undignified. “Ever since the wall, Crowley, and the flaming sword, and… they only ever wanted me to follow their orders, and I tried, you know I have, and that was the only time they called me good. Six thousand years, and I’ve never been certain of a choice that was truly mine. Now I’ve seen how cold they can be, how cruel, oh, my whole existence was in question. I’ve never wanted to hurt anybody.” He sighs. Crowley’s form is soft around the edges, blurred by a haze of tears. “And neither did you, did you?”

There’s something complicated happening on Crowley’s face, a dozen emotions battling for dominance so fiercely that even Aziraphale can’t divine where they’ll come to rest. “Guess not,” is all he says. It comes out fighting, almost as hard-won a confession as anything Aziraphale had said in the church.

An angel and a demon sit there silently for some time in the car, in the dark, but it’s a companionable quiet. The whole world feels lighter now, for Aziraphale. He hopes, desperately, that Crowley can feel it too.

Eventually, in some unspoken agreement, they slide out of the Bentley in sync. It always gives Aziraphale a little thrill to arrive here, _coming home_ , and he feels it now more keenly than ever. Despite the chilly night, the temperature inside is a perfect, comforting warmth. Aziraphale removes his coat to hang it on the rack by the door, but wishes away his shoes, impatient to collapse on the sofa. Crowley sprawls beside him, taking up an absurd amount of space even by his standards, and drapes an arm around the angel’s shoulders. Despite all the earlier contact, well, this is a new one, and Aziraphale tenses briefly before settling back. There’s that thing in his demon's eyes again, for once without a hint of strife behind it: openness. “I just realized something,” says Crowley with a cheshire grin.

Eyebrows raised in question, Aziraphale asks: “Should I be worried?”

“ _Welllll_ ,” he drawls, “we just walked down the aisle together, angel. Got a blessing, from Herself no less. Might not be true to human custom, but I think you could argue that we just got married.”

There’s a little stuttering shock in Aziraphale’s chest, but it’s not delight, or anger just… shock. “Oh my,” he says.

“Just a thought,” adds Crowley. “Doesn’t matter much to me, either way."

“No?”

“Nah. After all this time, I’m pretty sure you’re stuck with me regardless.”

Aziraphale lists sideways, and only looks back at Crowley once his head is resting firmly on the demon’s shoulder. It’s impossible to say whose smile is more fond. “I’m glad you were there,” he says. “I ought to have told you to begin with, really; it was foolish of me to try and hide it and… I’m glad. Even if it had gone the other way, it was easier knowing I’d land beside you.”

Crowley’s hand comes to rest in his angel’s hair, and it feels as holy a benediction as the Word that spoke them into being. “You absolute dimwit,” he says, with a smile in his voice. “Of course you would."

**Author's Note:**

> MORE NOTES THAN YOU ACTUALLY WANT OR NEED:  
> 
> 
>   * The last fic I uploaded, a short-ish one-shot, took nearly 8 years to write. The one before that was something like 9 months. I’ve got maybe a dozen WIPs that I’m picking away at a sentence at a time over the course of what may as well be literally forever. I wrote this in one sitting. What is pacing? We just don’t know. It is what it is. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> 
>   * I had no idea what this was about when I started it, I’m as surprised as you are. It feels dumb but cathartic, and as far as I’m concerned that’s a fine thing for a fanfic to be.  
> 
>   * I have never written anything but Gen in my life and even though I have shipped these two nerds for over fifteen years, I struggled with tagging this M/M because, well… it’s pretty much just slightly more affectionate Gen.  
> 
>   * I’m one of those old-school book fans drawn back in by the TV show and just in awe of the fandom becoming what it is. This book was my whole life when I was 15 years old, I think I posted some (probably terrible) fic on FFnet in like… 2003. Anyhow, shoutout to anyone from lower_tadfield on LJ, y’all are my crew and might have seen some of my awful anime fanart back in the before times, the long long ago. 
> 



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